


Heatwave Fever

by Starshot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky coming to terms with being gay in the 30's, Fever, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sarah Rogers being a sassy progressive queen, Sick Steve Rogers, Summer heatwave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21898933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starshot/pseuds/Starshot
Summary: As New York bakes beneath the heat of a record-breaking summer, and Steve burns up with a fever, Bucky learns a lesson in accepting who he really is, courtesy of Sarah Rogers.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 130
Collections: Stucky Secret Santa 2019





	Heatwave Fever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iceprinceofbelair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceprinceofbelair/gifts).



> Written for Stucky Secret Santa 2019. I ran with your prompts for sickfic/Sarah Rogers, and this is what I came up with. Hopefully you like it!

### Brooklyn, NY, 1933:

Heatwaves should be outlawed, Bucky’s decided. They make people crazy.

The proof is in just how many people he’s seen blow a fuse over nothing since this one started three days ago. Tussling in the street over who gets the last ice cream at the store, or for a spot in line at the pool.

How even if people aren’t fighting, it gets to them in other ways. Like pretty Connie, the grocer’s girl, who he saw in the alleyway last night with a boy, doing things he’s certain wouldn’t pass muster at church on Sunday.

‘Record Breaking’ the newspaper headlines declare. ‘Drought Across the United States”. Wheat and corn crops failing in the heart of America’s breadbasket. Dust storms swallowing entire towns. And only yesterday someone told Bucky that a place in New Jersey hit 120 degrees – hot enough to wilt strawberries right on the stem.

In short, it’s madness.

And New York is no exception. Day after day it bakes under blazing clear blue skies, hot enough to melt the tar right off the roads. Shimmering waves of heat rise from every sidewalk, carrying with them the combined stench of rot from the city’s many drains.

Bucky pinches his nose, holding his breath as he dances around yet another festering trash bag. His satchel bounces alongside him, its orange-laden weight damp against his shirt, only adding to the layer of filmy sweat and grime it feels like he’s been wearing since the second he finished bathing this morning.

Everyone’s suffering under the heat. Especially Steve who, as it turns out, has somehow managed to take the one time of year he should actually be healthy, and come down with a fever instead.

Bucky opens the door to tenement building where Steve and his Ma live, only to be assaulted by a rush of stifling air that envelops him unpleasantly, like standing in front of an open oven. In this sort of weather, being inside is almost worse than outside. At least outside, there’s a breeze.

He climbs the stairs, sweat already beading on his forehead by the time he reaches their floor. But before he can rap smartly on the apartment door, it opens.

“Bucky!” Sarah Rogers exclaims, pulling him into an enthusiastic hug.

“Hi, Mrs. Rogers,” Bucky mumbles against the shoulder of her uniform. As starched as it might be, even it’s fighting a losing battle in this heat, turning more limp than crisp around the edges.

When Sarah finally lets go, she fixes him with a brilliant smile that’s more than a little reminiscent of Steve’s. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m mighty sorry to have to ask it of you, but I didn’t want to leave him alone. Not in this heat.”

Bucky shakes his head, truly meaning it when he says, “Nah it’s fine Mrs. Rogers, really. I’m happy to help.”

She looks at him with an expression Bucky can’t quite place, fond almost. Then with a quick glance up at the clock on the wall, she jumps. “Oh! I really must get going or else I’ll be late for work.”

She straightens her nurses cap, scoops up her bag, and sweeps past Bucky onto the landing. At the top of the stairs she pauses briefly. “I’ll be back before dark,” she tells him, adding a second later, “Don’t let him boss you round too much.”

Bucky grins. She’s definitely got Steve’s measure. “No problem, Mrs. Rogers,” he assures her, “I won’t.”

They both know that’s probably a lie.

Sarah smiles again. “Well then, I’ll see you boys tonight!”

Then she’s gone, quick footsteps receding down the stairs. Bucky closes the door and makes his way to the small bedroom. As predicted, Steve is still in bed, propped up against a mismatched collection of pillows, face shiny and flushed scarlet about the cheeks. As soon as Bucky enters the room, he scowls.

“Oh great. Just because I’m feeling crummy doesn’t mean I need a babysitter. I _can_ look after myself you know.”

Bucky can’t help but smile. If Steve’s still this grouchy, he’s can’t be too sick. Nothing like the long days of winter when his small body is racked by terrible coughing fits, and phlegm settles in his lungs like a death-rattle.

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky says, throwing himself down beside Steve, and tossing the satchel at him. “But the thing is, you don’t have to.”

Steve’s expression remains glum though, and up close Bucky can see the dry chapped lips that are the hallmark of one of his half-decent fevers. No wonder Sarah called for Bucky. Steve’s definitely running a temperature, if nothing worse.

“You should be out there enjoying the weather Buck, not stuck inside with me,” Steve complains, twisting the blankets into knots beneath his fingers.

Bucky snorts. Loudly. “You’ve gotta be kidding me! D’you have any idea how hot it is out there?”

“About half as hot as it is in here?” Steve offers wryly.

_Not too sick to be a smartass then..._

Bucky grins, offering him a shrug. “Well, you’re not wrong. But my best pal isn’t out there, is he? He’s here. So this is where I want to be too.” He scoots up the bed, throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulling him close, ruffling his hair exactly the way he hates. It might just be a convenient excuse to get a little closer to Steve, but who really cares? It’s not like there’s anyone here to see them.

“Buck, quit it,” Steve complains, trying to fend him off. “Gerroff me you big old jerk…”

Feigning upset, Bucky makes a face. “Oh c’mon Stevie, is that any way to talk to someone who’s brought you oranges and the latest Buck Rogers comic book?”

Steve’s expression says he’s not the least bit impressed. “Bucky, _you_ like Buck Rogers, not me.”

Which is right of course, but also beside the point. The point being that anything they do is fun, so long as they’re doing it together. There’s a reason Sarah calls them inseparable after all.

“I just like that he’s named after both of us,” Bucky says, nudging Steve’s leg through the blanket.

“He isn’t though.”

“How would you know?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Because no one would name an action hero after my sickly ass and your ugly mug.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh, throwing a hand in front of them as though painting an image on the far wall of Steve’s room. “C’mon Stevie, I can see it now! The adventures of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes in the 25th century AD. We’ll travel through time to become crime-fighting superheroes, and spend the rest of our days saving the world from bad guys.”

Steve’s lips twitch ever so slightly, and Bucky knows he’s won. A little weakly, Steve attempts to shove him off the bed. “You’re ridiculous. I’m going to get some water.”

“Oh no,” Bucky moans, clutching his chest overdramatically. “Betrayed by my own sidekick.” He rolls off onto the floor, then back up onto his knees, looking for Steve’s response. 

Steve slides his legs out from under the covers, aiming an ineffective kick at Bucky’s thigh before setting both feet on the floor. He stops a moment to catch his breath, then looks up at Bucky with a tired kind of amusement. “Please…” he says dryly. “I think we both know you’d be _my_ sidekick.”

Bucky can’t help the way he grins. Steve’s probably right. Of the two of them, Steve’s always the one always getting himself into trouble, and Bucky’s always the one there to pull him out. He’s even about to concede as much, before Steve makes an attempt to stand.

He stumbles, sways a little, then collapses forward, pitching straight into Bucky’s arms.

“Whoa there, Steve!” Bucky says, clutching him tight. 

Steve’s arms drape at Bucky’s sides, head settling weakly onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.

Bucky can’t hide the indrawn breath that Steve being so close causes. Or way his head turns automatically, leaning into the tickle of Steve’s hair at his cheek. He only hopes Steve doesn’t notice. Or that if he _does_ , that he doesn’t appreciate the greater meaning behind it.

But as much as Bucky likes having Steve in his arms, he’s not so excited about it if the reason is because Steve’s passed out. Luckily, for now, he doesn't seem to have. Bucky helps him up, supporting his near dead-weight back to the bed.

“Buck, lemme go. I don’t need help. I’m fine,” Steve complains, struggling half-heartedly.

“You’re not fine punk, you nearly fell over.”

“I just got a little dizzy standing up is all. But I’m ok now.”

“You are _not_ fine,” Bucky grunts, depositing Steve onto the mattress, and prodding him until he crawls back under the sheet. “You’re sick, and you’re goin’ to let me take care of you.”

Apart from scowling, Steve obviously can’t muster the energy to argue. 

Taking the opportunity, Bucky retreats to the kitchen, returning several minutes later with a glass of water and a plate of orange slices. He sets the plate down on Steve’s lap, handing him the water. Despite it being nearly warm enough to brew coffee in, Steve gratefully drains the entire glass. He only manages one orange slice though, before shaking his head and pushing the plate away.

“You sure you won’t eat any more?” Bucky asks. “They’re good for you when you’re sick. I read about it in the paper. Vitamin C or something.”

Steve just shakes his head. “Sorry, Buck. I really don’t feel very good…”

He does look considerably more flushed than when Bucky first arrived, eyes now glassy, and reactions slow. Bucky rests the back of his hand on Steve’s forehead. The temperature in the room has to be nearly a hundred, but Steve’s still warmer to the touch.

“Cripes Steve, you’re burning up.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah, we should really…” Bucky’s train of thought hits a speed bump and derails. Because how is he supposed cool Steve down when even the water from the faucet is tepid? There’s no ice in the ice box either, because with temperatures the way they have been, prices have skyrocketed and the supply has dwindled. He sighs. They’ll just have to make do. Whatever that entails.

“Stay there,” he instructs. “I’m going to get some cool cloths.”

An hour and multiple ‘cool’ cloths later though, it’s obvious Steve is getting worse no matter what Bucky does. He knows, because Steve always starts saying strange things when he’s delirious.

“We should go dancing Buck,” Steve rasps, clutching Bucky’s hand as he changes the cloth on Steve’s forehead again. “Just you an’ me.”

“Now who’s being ridiculous?” Bucky asks, smoothing the wet linen across Steve’s burning skin and trying to ignore the way his heart leaps in his chest. He’s always wanted to swing Steve around a dance hall. To feel what it would be like to pull him close, and hold him like the other guys do dames. But it’s not something he’ll ever talk about. It’s not _proper_. And Steve’s not like that anyway. Not a queer like him. “I’m not gonna swing you ‘round the dance floor like some dame Steve. Besides, you hate dancing anyway.”

Steve’s mouth screws up, brows forming that troubled little bridge between his eyes that Bucky knows all too well. “No I don’t. I just don’t like dancing with all them dames who’re taller than me. Maybe I’d like it if I found the right partner.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Well I ain’t her.”

“I dunno,” Steve mumbles, almost to himself. “You have such pretty eyes…”

Something electric sparks down Bucky’s spine. “What?” he hears himself blurt out.

Steve smiles warmly, baby blues sparkling with sincerity. “Let’s go dancing Buck. We can take the yellow brick road.”

Bucky’s heart sinks. For a second he’d thought maybe… But no, he and Steve are friends, nothing more. Bucky’s the one who’s wrong for wanting more.

Patting Steve on the arm, he tries to convince himself it’s for the best. At least one of them is normal. “Sure pal. Soon as you get better I’ll take you dancing. Along the yellow brick road and everything.”

But Steve doesn’t respond.

Bucky taps his arm again, unease beginning to take root in the pit of his stomach. “Steve,” he says, shaking his shoulder gently. “Stevie c’mon, don’t go to sleep on me now.”

Still nothing.

 _Shit_.

Bucky scrambles to the kitchen to retrieve Sarah’s thermometer from the cupboard. He works it gently into Steve’s mouth, ignoring the way his face scrunches up at the intrusion. Even though he doesn’t wake, some response is better than none.

The reading is definitely high though. A touch under 102 maybe. Not so high Bucky needs to be running through the streets to hospital with Steve in his arms yet, but high enough he’ll probably have to soon if he can’t get the fever down.

He groans, running an unsteady hand through his hair. How exactly is he supposed to do that in the height of summer?

 _Cripes Bucky, think._ But thinking is hard to do right now with all the noise coming from outside the building. It sounds like a crowd of people having a fight or something. Bucky stomps back into the kitchen, planning to throw open the window and tell them all in no uncertain terms to clear off. But when he gets there, the source of the commotion becomes apparent.

It’s an ice truck.

Relief washes over him, cool and sweet, like a dip in the ocean. Like it’s Christmas in June.

Without even stopping to check the coins in his pocket, Bucky flies downstairs, faster than Buck Rogers and his jumping belt could manage, he reckons. Then it’s a fight to get through the packed crowd, all of whom are waving competing fistfuls of money at the ice man. There’s a small chance – okay a big chance truthfully – that Bucky gets somewhat liberal with his elbows and fists here and there. But he figures at least it’s for a good cause. Steve _needs_ this.

Before he knows it, he’s standing in front of the leather-jacketed vendor, vying to get his attention. “Please sir!” he calls, waving his hand as high as it will go, “My friend is sick. He has a fever. I’ve got to get some ice.”

“You and everyone else kid,” someone in the crowd mutters.

In spite of them, the plea seems to work. Bucky pays probably triple what he should, but as soon as he’s sitting back in the apartment, staring at a 25lb block of ice delivered straight into the ice box for him, he simply can’t find it in himself to care.

The mid-afternoon sun beats down outside, and Bucky gets to work. The first thing he does is chip off enough ice to wrap in linen and place on Steve’s forehead. Then some more to cool a small pot of water which he uses to soak the cloths for Steve’s chest, arms, and legs. It needs to be cool, but not too cold, and stretch the precious quantity of ice he has as far as it will go. There’s no knowing when Steve’s fever will break, or when the ice truck will be back next. 

The rest of the afternoon develops a distinct pattern. Wet more cloths, put them on Steve, check his temperature, chip off more ice, try (and fail) to get some fluids into him, wait another fifteen minutes, then rinse and repeat. Bucky feels like he’s back and forward on his feet for the rest of the day. 

But still, Steve doesn’t wake up.

He’s not getting any worse, but he’s not getting better either, and Bucky’s really beginning to worry. As much as Steve’s a fighter, his body can only take so much. Bucky’s exhausted too, and his ice supplies are rapidly dwindling.

Early evening, the skies dim beneath a canopy of dark swollen clouds that hang in the hot, unmoving air. In the distance, the odd roll of thunder threatens, but there’s still no sign of rain. Just a stifling, clammy heat, like the world is holding its collective breath. Waiting – just like Bucky.

He peels back the cloth covering Steve’s forehead again and sets it aside, brushing a few wayward strands of hair away and letting his fingers linger on Steve’s soft skin. The delicate line of his brows. The barely-there blond stubble growing on his jaw just in time for his sixteenth birthday. Long blond eyelashes that only just skim his cheeks. A smattering of summer freckles. The beautiful symmetry of him.

His spirit.

The way he never gives up, no matter the odds against him. The way he never lets anything get him down. Bucky might know how to win a fistfight, but Steve’s stronger than he’ll ever be. Seeing him like this hurts – an empty ache Bucky’s chest that calls out to be filled. He wishes there was something more he could do to help. Click his heels maybe and wish Steve home.

Forgetting himself for a moment, Bucky lets his hands trail down the sides of Steve’s face to cup his cheeks, leaning close to whisper just above his forehead, “Please come home to me punk.”

The fever’s heat still seeps off Steve like a radiator turned all the way up, but through it, Bucky can smell the soft aroma of his skin, musky and sweet, beckoning like an invitation. He skims a little lower, closing his eyes and breathing it in. He and Steve are so close now… he could just…

Holding his breath, he presses a tentative kiss to Steve’s forehead.

There’s a footfall outside the door. “Bucky?”

Adrenaline flood Bucky’s veins. Snapping upright, he leaps away from Steve like he’s been burnt, taking so many steps backward he cracks his head against the wall. “Ow, sh—"

_Smooth Barnes. Really smooth._

From the doorway Sarah watches him, head cocked, expression unreadable.

Bucky freezes, blood running cold. It’s either that or trip over his words. Because he realises – with a terrible sinking certainty – that from where she’s standing, there’s no way she could possibly have missed him kissing Steve. She _knows_. And because of it, she’ll probably never let him near Steve again…

His face burns, stomach twisting itself knots. But still, neither of them moves. In fact, it feels like a solid thirty seconds before either he, or Sarah, does anything... All the time in the world for Bucky’s safe existence to come crashing down around him like a poorly crafted tower of cards. Of course in reality, it’s probably only five seconds before Sarah shakes off her stupor, and asks Bucky in an entirely business-like way how Steve has been today.

Bucky swallows, managing some sort of awkward croaking noise before his voice starts to work again. “He’s been… okay. Running a fever and knocked out most of the day, but it’s starting to come down a little, last I checked.”

Sarah nods, eyes scanning over Steve. Probably trying to tell what terrible things Bucky’s done to corrupt him while she’s been gone. She sighs, frazzled hair and bags beneath her eyes giving away exactly what kind of day it’s been at the hospital. “Why don’t you wait in the kitchen while I check on him?” she offers. “You look dead on your feet.”

Shifting from foot to foot, Bucky tries hopelessly to smooth his creased shirt so he looks a little less like the degenerate he is. “Actually Mrs. Rogers, it’s been a very long day, so I think it’s probably best if I just head straight home. Wouldn’t want my folks to worry.”

It’s either going home, or have the floor swallow him up, Bucky thinks. Both would be acceptable solutions right now.

But Sarah just waves her hand at him. “Don’t be silly. Take a seat in the kitchen, and I’ll be out to make some sandwiches in a minute. You look like you haven’t eaten all day, and I can’t send you home hungry.”

Feeling like he has the proverbial apocalypse hanging over him, Bucky nods, throat dry. He dashes past Sarah and takes a seat at the table, fidgeting nervously. Why did he have to kiss Steve? Such a stupid mistake, and it’s going to be his undoing…

It’s an agonisingly long wait for Sarah to come out of Steve’s room. Even longer while she makes sandwiches, pottering around in kitchen in the kind of silence that makes the back of Bucky’s neck prickle. He tries to think of what he can to say to explain himself. That it was a mistake? That he was just worried for Steve? That it won’t ever happen again?

Because of those three statements, only one is true, and he doesn’t think it’ll be nearly enough to convince Sarah.

“Come on,” Sarah says, unlatching the kitchen window and beckoning Bucky out onto the fire escape. “It’s cooler out here. And the view is better.”

They settle onto the pleasantly cool metal, dangling their legs through the railing and watching the occasional flashes of lighting on the horizon. It’s still clammy and stifling, but somehow less so than the confines of the apartment.

Sarah chews her sandwich in thoughtful silence, but Bucky finds his appetite missing in action. He picks at his plate, not wanting to appear rude, but wishing he could just go home.

“You bought ice,” Sarah says, eventually, putting down her empty plate, and turning to face Bucky.

It’s not how Bucky envisaged this conversation starting. He pushes half a sandwich across his own plate, still not quite able to meet Sarah’s eyes. “Steve was burning up. I had to get his fever down somehow.”

“That’s very sensible of you.”

Bucky shrugs, watching moths flit about them in light from the building windows. He feels like he’s on tenterhooks waiting.

Smiling tentatively, Sarah’s eyes drift over him, then down to his still mostly uneaten food. “You’re awfully quiet tonight,” she observes. “Something on your mind?”

Setting his plate aside, Bucky grips the metal railing beside them, breathing in deeply. Might as well get this over with quick, like ripping off a plaster. “I uh… I wanted to explain about earlier. With me and uh… Steve. Well, just me really. It’s just… I’ve been so worried about him all afternoon, and I think maybe it went to my head a bit—”

“Bucky—”

“— and I got a little silly. But I didn’t mean anything by it Mrs. Rogers. I ain’t one of them queers or anything. So you don’t have to worry about letting me around Steve in future—”

“Bucky.”

Bucky _swallows,_ hanging his head. He’s pretty sure this is the part where he gets thrown out. He only hopes she won’t tell his parents too.

A hand settles on top of his own, skin scrubbed rough. “I’m glad Steve has you.”

Startled, Bucky looks up. “But… what about…” the words stick in his throat and he flushes again. 

“There’s nothing wrong with getting a little silly when someone you love is involved,” Sarah says. 

Bucky nearly chokes on his tongue. _Love?_ “I— I mean… of course I _care_ about Steve,” he stammers. “We’re friends. He’s very important to me. As a friend.” Internally he winces. _Great job sounding convincing Buck._

Sarah smiles though, looking remarkably like Steve again. She gives his hand another pat, then leans back, pulling at the pins affixing her hat to her hair, expression far away. “Did I ever tell you how Joseph and I arrived in America?”

Confused by the sudden change of topic, Bucky shakes his head. “No.”

Dislodging the last pin, Sarah sets the hat down beside her, then works to gradually loose her hair from its tight bun. “Well… the boat ride over from Ireland was awful. So many families cramped into such a small space, with almost no hygiene facilities. Disease spread like wildfire. We made the crossing during storm season, and apart from the crew, there wasn’t a man, woman, or child on that vessel who wasn’t sick at least once. I took ill worse than most.” Expression turning soft, and she glances in the direction of Steve’s room. “I didn’t know it yet at the time, but it was because I was pregnant with Stevie.”

The way she says it is fond, like it's a happy memory. 

“I struggled to keep anything down, and when we finally arrived at the great hall on Ellis Island for inspection, the doctors wanted to turn me away. Too weak they said. An immigration risk. I was to be isolated at the hospital until a Board of Special Inquiry could be convened to decide if I would be sent back to Ireland. Joseph fretted something awful of course. We’d spent our life savings on the passage over, so there was nothing to go back to. I was certain we were done for.”

Bucky nods. It’s the same story he’s heard repeated time and time again across the borough. New York is a city of immigrants, and most of the kids he’s grown up with are either immigrants themselves, or the children of immigrants, like Steve. Not all of them had it easy getting into America. Though what any of it has to do with the issue at hand, he’s not sure.

Sarah works her fingers through her hair, combing it out, a slightly wistful expression on her face. “We were lucky though. A man came to help us, from the Irish Emigrant Society. He got us a second opinion, and when the nature of my condition became apparent, convinced the Board that I wasn’t unfit at all, just ‘temporarily indisposed’. After a few weeks recovery, they approved my application.”

A flash of lightning sizzles across the sky, chased by a not-so-distant rumble of thunder, and they both glance up.

It's followed by a fitful gust of wind that Sarah turns her face to, closing her eyes like she's savouring it. “After Steve was born, I tried to find the man again. I wanted to thank him, for what he did. But… it was like he’d vanished off the face of the planet. His neighbour told me he’d been seen with another man. Said he was ‘ _that_ way’.”

For a moment, there's silence. Then, sighing deeply, Sarah turns back to Bucky. “I never did manage to find out what happened to him. But I know in my heart he was a good person. Everything I have now – my life here, Steve – I owe to him.”

Bucky can't help but stare at her, wide-eyed. He can't _possibly_ be hearing this right... Sarah's words go against everything anyone’s ever told him. The myriad of reasons he’s spent so many years trying to pretend he doesn’t feel the way he does about Steve. Yet if he's understood her correctly, she's telling him to his face that there’s nothing wrong with being who he is. 

“But…” he says, chest a little tight. “Don’t you think what he was doing was wrong?”

Sarah smiles sympathetically, shaking her head. “I think it was none of my business. That people are too quick to judge. For all their talk of love in the Bible, they’re awful quick to condemn when it suits them. Way I see it, if all love comes from God, then it ain’t our place to be selective about it. We’ve got to have faith that He knows what He’s doing.”

Bucky frowns at the sky. “That… makes sense,” he concedes, glancing back towards Steve’s room.

Sarah’s smile broadens. She follows his gaze, then pats his shoulder like there’s nothing more to say about the matter. “‘Course it does. I said it, didn’t I? Granted, that don’t mean it’s easy for those who find themselves in that position. But nothing worth doing ever is.”

They both jump as a bolt of lightning illuminates the street, chased by a rumble of thunder so deep it rattles the windows. A fat drop of rain falls onto Bucky’s head, quickly followed by another.

“Bucky? Ma?” a thin reedy voice calls from inside.

Bucky’s heart feels electrified. _Steve_. It’s impossible to stop the automatic way his head turns, or the aborted half-movement he makes towards standing up.

Beside him, Sarah just chuckles, eyes resting on the expression that’s almost certainly giving Bucky away. “Looks like this heatwave has finally broken hm? We should probably go inside before we get soaked. There’s more than enough sickness in this house without you coming down with something too,” She raises an eyebrow Bucky’s way before adding irreverently, “If you haven’t already.”

Bucky’s face feels like it’s on fire at the implication. Inside though, his heart is singing.

Sarah laughs, herding him back through the window, then picking up the plates and her hat and stepping through after him. “Why don’t you stay over tonight?” she suggests. “I’m sure Steve would like to see you. He’s really very fond of you, you know.”

Bucky freezes. After the talk they’ve just had, for her to… “He… is?”

Giving him a mysterious smile, Sarah just ruffles his hair. “Why don’t you ask him for yourself sometime?”

Mouth hanging awkwardly open until he finally remembers to close it, Bucky nods. He turns on his heel, heading for Steve’s room, then pauses, remembering the final nagging issue still bothering him about tonight. “Mrs. Rogers… you’re uh… not planning to tell my parents about any of this are you? It’s just, I’m not sure they’d understand is all and—”

Sarah clicks her tongue, making an unimpressed face at him. “James Barnes, have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying tonight?”

“Um…”

“It ain’t any of my business. Or theirs. Now hurry up and get in that room before I have to tan your hide to get you in there!”

Bucky grins, throwing up his hands for mercy. “Yes ma’am! And… thank you.”

Sarah just smiles, shooing him away and turning back to her washing up.

In the bedroom, Steve’s finally sitting up. He smiles brilliantly the second Bucky bursts through the door, which makes Bucky feel all lightheaded and silly. On examination, he’s still a little warm to the touch, hair sticking damply to his forehead. But just like the weather, the worst of his fever has undeniably broken. 

Bucky leaps onto the bed beside him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “So, you feeling better punk?”

Steve rolls his eyes like he’s trying to look annoyed, but it’s totally ruined by the way he’s smiling at Bucky. “Yeah, thanks to my babysitter.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh, ruffling Steve’s hair again. Steve shoves him away, Bucky grabs him back, then they’re both tussling across the covers, laughing and happy.

That night, the two of them sleep top and tail, same as ever. The next morning, when Bucky wakes before Steve, he finds there’s just enough ice left to make Steve a big glass of chilled orange juice to go with his toast. Steve’s still not strong enough to be up and about, but that just gives them a chance to read Bucky’s comic, poring over the futuristic adventures of Buck Rogers for nearly the entire morning.

When Bucky finally does prepare to go home, the oddest looks comes over Steve’s face. “Hey Buck…” he says, eyebrows forming deep worried furrows. “I didn’t say anything weird to you did I? While I was sick?”

His eyes meet Bucky’s, so gorgeously blue and trusting it almost takes Bucky’s breath away. He _wants_ to tell Steve, he really does…

But it doesn’t seem fair. Not when Steve didn’t mean to say what he did in the first place.

“Nah…” Bucky says, tone nonchalant, “I mean you were going on about the yellow brick road or something, but you know…” He shrugs like Steve being slightly strange is nothing less than what he’d expect.

Steve’s shoulders visibly relax. “Oh. Well I guess that’s not too crazy.”

Bucky smiles. That fact that Steve’s even concerned makes him feel all warm inside. If Steve’s worried about what he might have said, maybe his random ramblings weren’t quite so random after all.

Beautiful eyes and dancing huh? Bucky can work with that.

“Hey Stevie… I was wondering… It’s about time I taught you how to dance properly, don'tcha think?”

Steve’s eyes widen. He looks almost a little fearful, hands scrunching into the blankets. “What… just the two of us?”

Hands in his pockets, Bucky scuffs the floor with his toe. “Yeah. We could set up the wireless in the kitchen. I’d show you all the moves.” At Steve’s surprised silence Bucky runs a nervous hand through his hair. Maybe he’s misread the situation entirely. “I mean, you don’t have to,” he stammers, feeling his face growing warm. “I just thought it might be—”

“Yes,” Steve interrupts.

“What?”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

A thrill shoots through Bucky. There’s a highlight of pink spreading across Steve’s cheeks and down his neck. They both look away, then back again, smiling automatically when their eyes meet. Steve’s smile is tentative and shy, unfamiliar to Bucky in a way that excites him.

“Great,” he says.

“Great,” Steve replies.

“So I’ll uh… see you soon.”

“Yeah.”

Steve sounds a little breathy and Bucky ducks his head, hiding his own blush. That afternoon, he fairly skips all the way home.

Heatwaves might not be all bad, he’s decided. They make people crazy.

Sometimes, a little crazy can be a good thing.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who's interested, this story was partly inspired by a real heatwave that hit New York in 1933. The newspaper article I found said:
> 
> "A four day heat wave in New York City that began June 7, ended on June 10, 1933 with a violent thunderstorm which dropped the temperature down to 86. The day before, the thermometer in the city reached the mid 90’s and reportedly hit 120 degrees in Hammonton, NJ, wilting strawberries right on the stem."
> 
> Got to love when real life inspires fiction!


End file.
